


Stealing Secret Love

by deux_lunes



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 15:35:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20659553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deux_lunes/pseuds/deux_lunes
Summary: Paul reads John’s letter to Stuart, and discovers some startling revelations.Originally posted on Livejournal.





	Stealing Secret Love

My heart thudded in my chest; my ears were perked for any sound of movement. I knew this was wrong, of course I knew, but I was nineteen years old and it was right in front of me. The paper trembled in my hand, John’s scrawl shaking in my vision. Mimi had called him downstairs, and being the dutiful nephew he was, he went with a mighty stomp and holler. Absently, I looked through the papers on his desk, until the word _Stuart_ caught my eye. Then the word _love_.

My parents brought me up right; you didn’t read other people’s letters. It was the most sacred of communication. But John’s scribbles, the hurried words that only Stuart would be seeing… Face burning, I read.

The page flooded with love and angst, I struggled to breathe. The love of his heart, the desire of his flesh, all painted in his letter, begging Stuart to return to Liverpool, to please please please come back. _You don’t know how much I need you here. You’re too far away from me. Every night I dream about how you once held me, how you kissed me, and I can only cry because now you’re only a ghost on my skin._

“What the fucking hell are you doing?”

I leapt from my chair. The same man who had written these sweet words now stood behind me, words cold as tundra sun as he ripped his letter from my hands. I couldn’t speak; shame had stolen my voice, and I could only stare at John as he struggled not to scream at me.

“You little cunt,” he hissed. “What gives you the right to read my letters? You sneaking little shit.” 

Temper flared, I sneered, “Better than a queer little cunt, right, Johnny?”

John’s face drained of color, but his eyes were narrow and furious. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I snatched the letter from his hand. “‘I still think of your lips on me,’” I read. “‘The way you made me moan and the way you looked up at me—’”

He grabbed my wrist, squeezing hard enough that I knew I would see the imprint of his fingers tomorrow. “You had no right,” he whispered. “I’ve never told anyone.”

“You mean you’ve never told anyone that that artsy little cunt buggered you? I wouldn’t have told anyone eith—”

The palm across my cheek knocked the words out of me, and they were lost to the air. The force pushed me back against the desk, farther from the man in front of me. He was panting; his face was flushing from anger and shame.

“If you tell anyone,” he whispered, barely even that, “I will kill you.” His panic was palpable; his fingers clenched and unclenched, begging for my throat in between them, crushing the words I could say.

I had to run. I crushed the letter into my pocket, grabbed my guitar and escaped to the back door. No one was behind me. I ran through the gate, slinging my guitar over my back as I reached my bike. As I pedaled fast as I could down the street, I looked back to see John’s face in his window. My heart cried out.

In my room, I lay on my bed and pulled the ball of paper from my trousers. My fingers were heavy with shame, but I smoothed the paper nonetheless, the words still legible and still wet with desire. John didn’t just lust for Stuart… he was in love with him.

I read the letter two, three, fifteen times before I finally put it down. Maybe I had known it before now, but I couldn’t say. Of course I noticed the way John acted toward Stuart, but I just thought… I don’t know what I thought. Stuart was gone, he wouldn’t come back. All John had were memories and an empty bed. I closed my eyes, but I could only see them kissing. Stuart on his knees, looking up at John. John moaning, spreading his legs—

My eyes shot open, but the image was burned inside of me. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.” I didn’t want to think about this. I didn’t want to see this every time I closed my eyes. How could John, _my John_, be queer? How could he be in love with that pretentious bastard? _Why isn’t he in love with me?_

I shook my head, trying to free my mind of that thought. No, I’m not queer; I didn’t want John to be in love with me! I just… I just wanted him, him as he is. It wasn’t queer, it was just… us. But I closed my eyes again, letting myself imagine it. Kissing John. He’d be gentle, as gentle as he was in his letter. His soft lips against mine, allowing me to push him back, letting me kiss him with tongue, the same way I would a girl. If he got hard underneath me… If I did. 

I touched the front of my trousers. I was already half-hard.

“Fuck!” I hissed, balling the letter again and throwing it across the room. This wasn’t _me_. I’m not queer, I just love John! But I was still touching myself. My fingers were already popping my button open and pulling down my zip. I took hold of myself, thinking about John, doing this to Stuart, doing this to me. If he would touch me… If he would love me.

As I came, I said John’s name. I half-wished that someone heard me.

Clean trousers in place, I biked back to Mendips, the letter burning a hole in my pocket and my guilt burning a hole in me. I didn’t know what I would say, but it was something that had to be said. 

John yanked the door open, glaring at me. He didn’t say a word. I thrust the letter at him. “Sorry.”

“What the fuck is your problem, McCartney?” he snarled, ripping it from my hand. He stepped out of the door, closing it behind him. “If you’re through with me, then just… stay through with me.”

I put my hand on his elbow, only to feel him start. “I’m not. I don’t want to be.”

He glanced at me, only to look back at the letter in his hands, running his fingers over the wrinkles in the page. “So you don’t care then?”

I care. I care so much, John. “No, I don’t,” I lied. “I’m sorry for, you know. I was acting like a prick.”

John grinned at the letter. “Yeah, you were. Pricky Paul. Has a nice ring, eh?”

I grinned back at him, sticking out my hand. “Friends?”

He grabbed my proffered hand, finally looking me straight in the eye. “Friends.” He laughed, voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to try anything with you. I know you’re not that way.”

I forced my smile to stay on my face. “Good. We’re just friends.”

I didn’t know how long John kept his secret from me; I don’t know how long I will keep mine from him. I had returned his letter… but not his secret love.


End file.
